I have spent the better part of the past two days at the Capitol in St. Paul rallying against the marriage amendment. It has passed the Minnesota Senate and waits only for a vote on the House floor. GOVERNOR DAYTON CANNOT VETO AN AMENDMENT PROPOSAL.
We have heard from supportive GOP leadership how critically important it is that we continue to be a presence at the Capitol to prevent enshrining hate in Minnesota's Constitution. WE CAN WIN THIS, BUT WE NEED YOU. Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel taught that the opposite of good is not evil; the opposite of good is indifference. PLEASE TAKE A STAND.
WE NEED YOU AT THE CAPITOL TONIGHT, THROUGH THE WEEKEND, AND ON MONDAY. Stay up-to-date through OutFront Minnesota's website and be at the Capitol as often as you can. Every minute counts.
Shabbat Shalom!
Friday, May 20, 2011
Friday, May 13, 2011
Friday the 13th
It's been a bad week. But today is Friday the 13th and in my book, that's a good thing. (My mother was born on Friday the 13th. My brother came a day early on Thursday the 12th.) This week's Torah portion, Behar, contains the verse inscribed on the Liberty Bell: Proclaim LIBERTY throughout all the Land unto all the Inhabitants thereof Lev. XXV X. (Or, You shall proclaim liberty throughout the land for all of its inhabitants (Lev. 25:10).) There will, one day, be liberty and justice for all. It may take a lot of work, but it will happen.
Friday, May 6, 2011
Retribution and Restraint
I was driving home from the Twin Cities community's Holocaust remembrance service last Sunday evening, listening to MSNBC on my satellite radio. All of a sudden, the broadcast was interrupted by an announcement that in 15 minutes, the President would be making a special announcement, but that the details of that announcement were unknown. I walked in the door at home and quickly tuned my television to the news so that I could see what was so urgent. An hour or so later, the nation and the world knew that a CIA operation in Pakistan had resulted in the death of Osama bin Laden.
After the President had spoken, the news cameras turned to the crowds forming outside the White House, at Ground Zero, and at other locations around the country where Americans, many of them young adults, were celebrating America's victory. I, however, felt uneasy. Now, don't get me wrong, I don't disagree with the need to have protected ourselves by bringing the life of another to an end. Judaism demands that. In din ha-rodef, the law of the pursuer (Babylonian Talmud, Tractate Sanhedrin 73a), we are told that after warning a would-be murderer, we are obligated to stop him, even if it results in his death. But I also thought of the midrash of our crossing the Sea of Reeds where the angels rejoiced at the deaths of the Egyptians and God reminded them that even the Egyptians were God's children. Later in the week, Rabbi Joe Black reminded me of the verse from Proverbs, "Do not rejoice when your enemy falls, and let not your heart be glad when he stumbles" (Proverbs 24:17).
This week, in Parashat Emor, we are reminded of the Jewish law of capital punishment: "If anyone kills any human being, he shall be put to death. One who kills a beast shall make restutition for it: life for life. If anyone maims his fellow, as he has done so shall it be done to him: fracture for fracture, eye for eye, tooth for tooth. The injury he inflicted on another shall be inflicted on him" (Leviticus 24:17-20). What I learned today, though, in preparing for tomorrow's Torah study at Temple Israel, is that an eye for an eye, in the Biblical law, was not one that promoted retribution, but rather restraint. In those days, one was likely to respond disproportionately to an injury or death and Torah seeks to limit our reaction, protecting our relationship with one another and by virtue of that, with God.
Was it too much for the U.S. military to have killed Osama bin Laden? No. But it is too much if we don't show proper restraint in our reaction to his death. As one 9/11 victim's survivor put it, this is a time for us to honor the memory of those whose lives were lost, not to celebrate the death of a mass murderer; he doesn't deserve that much recognition.
After the President had spoken, the news cameras turned to the crowds forming outside the White House, at Ground Zero, and at other locations around the country where Americans, many of them young adults, were celebrating America's victory. I, however, felt uneasy. Now, don't get me wrong, I don't disagree with the need to have protected ourselves by bringing the life of another to an end. Judaism demands that. In din ha-rodef, the law of the pursuer (Babylonian Talmud, Tractate Sanhedrin 73a), we are told that after warning a would-be murderer, we are obligated to stop him, even if it results in his death. But I also thought of the midrash of our crossing the Sea of Reeds where the angels rejoiced at the deaths of the Egyptians and God reminded them that even the Egyptians were God's children. Later in the week, Rabbi Joe Black reminded me of the verse from Proverbs, "Do not rejoice when your enemy falls, and let not your heart be glad when he stumbles" (Proverbs 24:17).
This week, in Parashat Emor, we are reminded of the Jewish law of capital punishment: "If anyone kills any human being, he shall be put to death. One who kills a beast shall make restutition for it: life for life. If anyone maims his fellow, as he has done so shall it be done to him: fracture for fracture, eye for eye, tooth for tooth. The injury he inflicted on another shall be inflicted on him" (Leviticus 24:17-20). What I learned today, though, in preparing for tomorrow's Torah study at Temple Israel, is that an eye for an eye, in the Biblical law, was not one that promoted retribution, but rather restraint. In those days, one was likely to respond disproportionately to an injury or death and Torah seeks to limit our reaction, protecting our relationship with one another and by virtue of that, with God.
Was it too much for the U.S. military to have killed Osama bin Laden? No. But it is too much if we don't show proper restraint in our reaction to his death. As one 9/11 victim's survivor put it, this is a time for us to honor the memory of those whose lives were lost, not to celebrate the death of a mass murderer; he doesn't deserve that much recognition.
Friday, April 29, 2011
Judge Your Kin Fairly; Do Not Profit By the Blood of Your Fellow
You shall not render an unfair decision: do not favor the poor or show deference to the rich; judge your kin fairly. Do not deal basely with members of your people. Do not profit by the blood of your fellow: I am the Eternal. (Leviticus 19:15-16)
This afternoon, I sat in on a hearing of the Minnesota Senate Judiciary Committee, which was hearing testimony on a proposal to place an amendment on the ballot in Minnesota in 2012 legally restricting all marriage to one man and one woman. Unfortunately, the bill passed the committee and moves forward. There will likely be an same sex marriage ban amendment on the Minnesota ballot in 2012.
On my way back from the hearings, where I heard heartwarming, compelling, and emotional testimony from opponents to the legislation (not to mention misleading, hateful, and hurtful testimony from the proponents of the legislation), I was listening briefly to Science Friday, which featured Holly Tucker, author of Blood Work: A Tale of Medicine and Murder in the Scientific Revolution. Most of the piece that I caught focused on the advances of medicine regarding the circulatory system and the use of blood transfusions before science knew about blood types. One comment, though, caught me by surprise.
I had never really thought about the role of Jim Crow Laws in medicine. As it turns out, the Red Cross used to refuse donations from Black donors. And even once the Red Cross began accepted blood from Black donors, blood was segregated by race. In the 1930s, African American surgeon and hemotologist, Dr. Charles Drew, developed a method for preserving blood. "The American Red Cross enlisted Drew in 1941 to establish a blood bank program in the United States. That same year, the U. S. War Department declared, 'It is not advisable to collect and mix Caucasian and Negro blood indiscriminately for later administration to members of the military forces.'" It wasn't until 1949 that the U.S. Military stopped segregating blood.
Today, of course, men who have had sex with men since 1977 are prohibited from donating blood, even though research shows that the policy is antiquated and medically inaccurate.
In the 1940s, Black citizens who chose to donate blood were not judged fairly. In the Senate hearing today, an unfair decision was rendered and a minority is being unfairly judged. We know the cost of such discrimination and it's a price we shouldn't be willing to pay.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Tasting the Bitterness
Last Friday night I wasn’t on the bimah because I was among two dozen Temple Israel participants – including our 9th graders, TIPTYites, and chaperones – taking part in A Night on the Street, an annual sleep-out for homelessness organized by Plymouth Church Neighborhood Foundation, an organization working to end homelessness in Minneapolis. (Check out a video of our experience here.) There are 2500 youth who experience homelessness in Minnesota each night. We were part of a group of 400 participants from dozens of faith communities around the Twin Cities Metro who attempted to sleep outside for a night in solidarity with these homeless youth. I say ‘attempted’ because this was the first time in my six years of participating in the event that we had to allow the participants inside Plymouth Congregational Church because of the weather. If you remember last Shabbat, we went to set up our cardboard box villages while snow and sleet were falling and woke up to a light blanket of snow. Though it wasn’t a lot – certainly not enough to warrant plowing or shoveling – it was enough to cause our cardboard boxes to cave in, snow and rain to drench our sleeping bags and clothing. The tarps that we had were practically useless.
I never actually made it into my box. We gathered as a Jewish community at the event around 11:00 at night, along with participants and staff from Shir Tikvah, to mark the beginning of Shabbat. We lit little electric candles, shared challah, and in place of Kiddush, we shared a word about what made the experience holy for each of us. By the time we wrapped up our Shabbat blessings, the boxes were already damp and some were starting to cave in. Most of the teens tried crawling under the snow-speckled tarps towards their cardboard boxes. One Shir Tikvah participant, Naomi, crawled in and out of her box maybe a half a dozen times before coming up to me and asking if she could go home. By the time her father arrived, Naomi was in tears because she felt that she wasn’t tough enough to stick it out. I told her she still had a story to tell, a way to explain a taste of what it must be like to have to live on the streets, when she wanted to convince others to help end youth homelessness.
Around 12:30 am, the leadership decided to unlock the church doors and allow the participants to choose to sleep in Jones Commons, the lobby at the church. In the seven years that the event has taken place, we’ve never opened the church before. We’ve slept through rain and temperatures just above freezing, but the weather has never been so bitter that we had to allow the participants to sleep inside. At this point, a number of the teens were either not yet in their snow-soaked boxes or had climbed out of them, wringing out their clothing and sleeping bags of the puddles that had formed while they tried to sleep. We let them know that the warm, dry church was available to them, but that it was being treated like an emergency shelter. If they chose to go inside, they had to go to sleep – no socializing, no talking. In the end, about three-quarters of the participants and staff ended up sleeping inside. Among the Temple Israel group, we had three staff and a few kids who made it through the night outside.
At our Seder tables this past Monday night, we read the instruction of Rabban Gamaliel who teaches us that if we have not discussed three things – the Passsover offering, the matzah, and the maror – then we have not fulfilled the purpose of the Seder. When we discuss the maror, the bitter herb, we learn the importance of experiencing life from the perspective of others. The Baskin Haggadah tells us, “[Maror] was eaten, they said, because the Egyptians embittered the lives of our people, as it is written: ‘With hard labor at mortar and brick and in all sorts of work in the field, with all the tasks ruthlessly imposed upon them’ (Exodus 1:14).” The Haggadah continues, B'chol dor va-dor chayav adam lir'ot et atzmo k'ilu hu yatza mi-mitzrayim, “In every generation, each of us should feel as though we ourselves had gone forth from Egypt.”
At first, it seems impossible for us to believe that God actually expects us to really believe that we, ourselves, had gone out of Egypt, that it is neither a story about our ancestors who experienced the Exodus nor even simply a story that never really happened. We should feel as though we ourselves had gone forth from Egypt. How do we begin to experience this feeling? At the Seder table of Wendy Schwartz, our Adult Learning Coordinator, handheld mirrors come out with fabric draped over the top, like a curtain, so that participants can see their reflections wearing what their Egyptian garb might have been. But this is only a start. That’s still just make-believe.
The first step to realizing that it was we who came out of Egypt is to realize, as Rabbi Neil Gillman (in My People’s Passover Haggadah) teaches, “the Exodus was not simply a historical event that happened once upon a time, way back when. Rather, it inhabits an eternal present; it is contemporaneous, it is happening today, to us” (vol. 2, p. 74). The first detail Rabbi Gillman offers is that the text does not say that each Jew is required to see himself as having come free from Egypt. Rather, the text reads, chayav adam, each adam, each person is obligated. “The liberation from Egypt has universal significance that extends way beyond Jewish history. He then emphasizes the word k'ilu, ‘as though.’ We are to see ourselves as though we came out of Egypt. Rabbi Gillman acknowledges that their may be some exaggeration in the statement, but what we do have to realize is that as each of us reads the statement, as I read the statement that I was freed from Egypt, what I have to realize is that “I might have been—an accident of birth located me where I am now in space and time, but I could have been born in another time and in another place” (vol. 2, p. 79).
This is inherently part of the experience that our teens, our staff, and I had last Friday night. We were fortunate enough to be able to experience a taste of the bitterness of homelessness, fully aware that our experience paled in comparison to the reality of homelessness, just as the sharp burn of the horseradish barely conveys the depth of pain that accompanied slavery in Egypt. We were privileged enough to call parents and get rides home to welcoming arms and warm beds. We were lucky enough to have church doors unlocked to us, not to mention sleeping bags and even cardboard boxes and tarps, which though they failed us, were more than many homeless youth have living on Minnesota’s streets. We felt vulnerable nonetheless and that reminded us that slavery is happening today, homelessness is happening today. It is not a story of generations past. It is a story of now and each person must see himself or herself as having experienced that kind of vulnerability if we are to recognize the how at risk others are.
The experience also reminded us and our teens that homelessness isn’t something that happens to those people. It could be any one of us. Any of us could find ourselves a paycheck away from a food shelf, from sleeping on a friends couch, or seeking cover from wind and cold in order to survive the night. And we, the privileged, are often unaware of how at risk we all are when others are at risk at all. Following the Haggadah’s demand that each of us sees ourselves as having been personally freed from Egypt, it reminds us of the value repeated more than any other in our Torah: remember that you were strangers in the land of Egypt. The Torah tells us, more often than any other commandment, not to wrong the widow, the orphan, or the stranger, because we know the feelings of the stranger, having been strangers in the land of Egypt.
Judaism demands that we recognize our common narrative with all of humankind, that we look out for the weakest members of society – in Biblical times they were the widow, the orphan, and the stranger; today, they are the homeless, the poor, and so many others – not only because it’s right, but because we have been in their shoes. In Judaism, it’s no longer about walking a mile in someone’s shoes before we judge them. In Judaism, we have already walked that walk. We must remember it and use it as the narrative that drives us to bring redemption to the world. As we celebrate this holiday of Passover we cannot simply remember our own experience of slavery and our journey to freedom and stop there. No, we must work towards the ultimate redemption that the Seder demands. L'shanah ha-ba'ah b'Yrushalayim, Next year in Jerusalem, is not about geography. It is a hope for the Jerusalem that they mystics envisioned, one that is the centerpiece of a world free from slavery, tyranny, and, indeed, homelessness. Chag Sameyach and Shabbat Shalom.
I never actually made it into my box. We gathered as a Jewish community at the event around 11:00 at night, along with participants and staff from Shir Tikvah, to mark the beginning of Shabbat. We lit little electric candles, shared challah, and in place of Kiddush, we shared a word about what made the experience holy for each of us. By the time we wrapped up our Shabbat blessings, the boxes were already damp and some were starting to cave in. Most of the teens tried crawling under the snow-speckled tarps towards their cardboard boxes. One Shir Tikvah participant, Naomi, crawled in and out of her box maybe a half a dozen times before coming up to me and asking if she could go home. By the time her father arrived, Naomi was in tears because she felt that she wasn’t tough enough to stick it out. I told her she still had a story to tell, a way to explain a taste of what it must be like to have to live on the streets, when she wanted to convince others to help end youth homelessness.
Around 12:30 am, the leadership decided to unlock the church doors and allow the participants to choose to sleep in Jones Commons, the lobby at the church. In the seven years that the event has taken place, we’ve never opened the church before. We’ve slept through rain and temperatures just above freezing, but the weather has never been so bitter that we had to allow the participants to sleep inside. At this point, a number of the teens were either not yet in their snow-soaked boxes or had climbed out of them, wringing out their clothing and sleeping bags of the puddles that had formed while they tried to sleep. We let them know that the warm, dry church was available to them, but that it was being treated like an emergency shelter. If they chose to go inside, they had to go to sleep – no socializing, no talking. In the end, about three-quarters of the participants and staff ended up sleeping inside. Among the Temple Israel group, we had three staff and a few kids who made it through the night outside.
At our Seder tables this past Monday night, we read the instruction of Rabban Gamaliel who teaches us that if we have not discussed three things – the Passsover offering, the matzah, and the maror – then we have not fulfilled the purpose of the Seder. When we discuss the maror, the bitter herb, we learn the importance of experiencing life from the perspective of others. The Baskin Haggadah tells us, “[Maror] was eaten, they said, because the Egyptians embittered the lives of our people, as it is written: ‘With hard labor at mortar and brick and in all sorts of work in the field, with all the tasks ruthlessly imposed upon them’ (Exodus 1:14).” The Haggadah continues, B'chol dor va-dor chayav adam lir'ot et atzmo k'ilu hu yatza mi-mitzrayim, “In every generation, each of us should feel as though we ourselves had gone forth from Egypt.”
At first, it seems impossible for us to believe that God actually expects us to really believe that we, ourselves, had gone out of Egypt, that it is neither a story about our ancestors who experienced the Exodus nor even simply a story that never really happened. We should feel as though we ourselves had gone forth from Egypt. How do we begin to experience this feeling? At the Seder table of Wendy Schwartz, our Adult Learning Coordinator, handheld mirrors come out with fabric draped over the top, like a curtain, so that participants can see their reflections wearing what their Egyptian garb might have been. But this is only a start. That’s still just make-believe.
The first step to realizing that it was we who came out of Egypt is to realize, as Rabbi Neil Gillman (in My People’s Passover Haggadah) teaches, “the Exodus was not simply a historical event that happened once upon a time, way back when. Rather, it inhabits an eternal present; it is contemporaneous, it is happening today, to us” (vol. 2, p. 74). The first detail Rabbi Gillman offers is that the text does not say that each Jew is required to see himself as having come free from Egypt. Rather, the text reads, chayav adam, each adam, each person is obligated. “The liberation from Egypt has universal significance that extends way beyond Jewish history. He then emphasizes the word k'ilu, ‘as though.’ We are to see ourselves as though we came out of Egypt. Rabbi Gillman acknowledges that their may be some exaggeration in the statement, but what we do have to realize is that as each of us reads the statement, as I read the statement that I was freed from Egypt, what I have to realize is that “I might have been—an accident of birth located me where I am now in space and time, but I could have been born in another time and in another place” (vol. 2, p. 79).
This is inherently part of the experience that our teens, our staff, and I had last Friday night. We were fortunate enough to be able to experience a taste of the bitterness of homelessness, fully aware that our experience paled in comparison to the reality of homelessness, just as the sharp burn of the horseradish barely conveys the depth of pain that accompanied slavery in Egypt. We were privileged enough to call parents and get rides home to welcoming arms and warm beds. We were lucky enough to have church doors unlocked to us, not to mention sleeping bags and even cardboard boxes and tarps, which though they failed us, were more than many homeless youth have living on Minnesota’s streets. We felt vulnerable nonetheless and that reminded us that slavery is happening today, homelessness is happening today. It is not a story of generations past. It is a story of now and each person must see himself or herself as having experienced that kind of vulnerability if we are to recognize the how at risk others are.
The experience also reminded us and our teens that homelessness isn’t something that happens to those people. It could be any one of us. Any of us could find ourselves a paycheck away from a food shelf, from sleeping on a friends couch, or seeking cover from wind and cold in order to survive the night. And we, the privileged, are often unaware of how at risk we all are when others are at risk at all. Following the Haggadah’s demand that each of us sees ourselves as having been personally freed from Egypt, it reminds us of the value repeated more than any other in our Torah: remember that you were strangers in the land of Egypt. The Torah tells us, more often than any other commandment, not to wrong the widow, the orphan, or the stranger, because we know the feelings of the stranger, having been strangers in the land of Egypt.
Judaism demands that we recognize our common narrative with all of humankind, that we look out for the weakest members of society – in Biblical times they were the widow, the orphan, and the stranger; today, they are the homeless, the poor, and so many others – not only because it’s right, but because we have been in their shoes. In Judaism, it’s no longer about walking a mile in someone’s shoes before we judge them. In Judaism, we have already walked that walk. We must remember it and use it as the narrative that drives us to bring redemption to the world. As we celebrate this holiday of Passover we cannot simply remember our own experience of slavery and our journey to freedom and stop there. No, we must work towards the ultimate redemption that the Seder demands. L'shanah ha-ba'ah b'Yrushalayim, Next year in Jerusalem, is not about geography. It is a hope for the Jerusalem that they mystics envisioned, one that is the centerpiece of a world free from slavery, tyranny, and, indeed, homelessness. Chag Sameyach and Shabbat Shalom.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Orange You Glad I Didn't Say Banana?
Will there be an orange on your seder plate on Monday night? Whether or not an orange is present, you should know the real story of how the orange came to join the parsley, the charoset, and the horseradish. There's a pretty good chance that if you've been to a seder with an orange present, you've heard that the orange came to join the other ritual foods on the Passover table in solidarity with the role of women in Judaism and with Jewish feminism. You may even be familiar with the line, "A woman belongs on the bimah like an orange belongs on a seder plate." What you need to know is that that story simply isn't true. I know, I know, we may even doubt if the whole story of the Exodus is true, so what does it matter if we're telling the true story of the orange on the seder plate? Well, because whether or not the Exodus really ever happened, it still reminds us to use our experience as outsiders, outcasts, strangers to be sure that others don't feel separated. It still teaches us of our relationship with God and stirs our hope for a perfected world. Telling the wrong story about the orange actually serves against its original purpose. So, here goes. Brace yourself. This might feel a little bit like (cover your younger children's eyes and ears now) learning that the tooth fairy doesn't exist. Here's the real story of the orange on the seder plate, as documented at RitualWell.org and MyJewishLearning (written by Tamara Cohen), among other places:
Shabbat Shalom and Chag ha-Matzot Sameach, Happy Passover!
The problem with the newer - and inaccurate - version of the story of the orange on the seder plate, as Susannah Heschel points out, is that not only are lesbians and gay men excluded from Judaism by virtue of their being excluded in the new version of the story, but that the story intends to stand in solidarity with female rabbis, indeed with all Jewish women, and the voice of the woman - the actual woman, Susannah Heschel - is removed from the story, in contradiction with the story's alleged intention. Of course, Judaism has always changed and continues to change. But was we adapt tradition, adding new layers to it, making it more meaningful for us, we must broaden its scope, not narrow it. We must become more inclusive, not less. We must become more affirming and less restrictive. Now, if all of that was too academic for you, here's a lighter take on the matter:One of the newer symbols to appear on many seder plates is the orange. This custom has been around since the 1980s. In the 1990s a story circulated that the orange on the seder plate was a symbol supporting woman rabbis. The following article traces the actual source of this symbol. Though many traditionalist Jews would shy away from adding something to the seder plate, others feel that such new customs reinforce the underlying themes of Passover--freedom and liberation--and bring a contemporary focus to the seder. Reprinted with permission from www.ritualwell.org.
In the early 1980s, while speaking at Oberlin College Hillel [the campus Jewish organization], Susannah Heschel, a well-known Jewish feminist scholar, was introduced to an early feminist Haggadah that suggested adding a crust of bread on the seder plate, as a sign of solidarity with Jewish lesbians (which was intended to convey the idea that there's as much room for a lesbian in Judaism as there is for a crust of bread on the seder plate).
Heschel felt that to put bread on the seder plate would be to accept that Jewish lesbians and gay men violate Judaism like hametz [leavened food] violates Passover. So at her next seder, she chose an orange as a symbol of inclusion of gays and lesbians and others who are marginalized within the Jewish community. She offered the orange as a symbol of the fruitfulness for all Jews when lesbians and gay men are contributing and active members of Jewish life.
In addition, each orange segment had a few seeds that had to be spit out--a gesture of spitting out, repudiating the homophobia of Judaism. While lecturing, Heschel often mentioned her custom as one of many feminist rituals that have been developed in the last 20 years. She writes, "Somehow, though, the typical patriarchal maneuver occurred: My idea of an orange and my intention of affirming lesbians and gay men were transformed. Now the story circulates that a man said to me that a woman belongs on the bimah [podium of a synagogue] as an orange on the seder plate. A woman's words are attributed to a man, and the affirmation of lesbians and gay men is erased. Isn't that precisely what's happened over the centuries to women's ideas?"
Shabbat Shalom and Chag ha-Matzot Sameach, Happy Passover!
Friday, April 8, 2011
Houses and Holiness
I've been keenly aware that I haven't posted anything in a while. I'd like simply to say that I have been busy, but that is all too common of an excuse. This afternoon, though, I have made a little time to post. Hopefully, it will continue more regularly in the near future. Besides being busy - I'll get to that in a minute - it's also harder to motivate myself to write when I give thought to the weekly parashah. A few weeks ago we began reading Vayikra, the book of Leviticus. If you know anything about Torah, you probably know that Leviticus is filled with sacrificial laws, ones that often seem far removed from a modern Jewish life.
I knew this week's Torah portion was Metzora, typically the second half of a double portion with Tazria. But this being a leap year in the Jewish calendar, it gets a week all to itself. In the midst of the Torah portion are the laws that tell you how to deal with an eruptive plague in your house (Lev. 14:34). The text tells us that if a plague breaks out in our house, the owner is instructed to go to the priest who will examine the house. After examining it, the priest will leave it alone for a week and return to see if the plague has spread. If it has spread, then the affected stones will be removed, replaced, and plaster will be added. This gets repeated again if the plague has spread, hopefully not resulting in needing to tear down the house. Ultimately, when the plague has been overcome, a sacrifice is offered. It involves the use of two birds, one that is sacrificed and a second that is set free.
So, how could all of this possibly be relevant? Well, my house is on the market as I prepare to leave Minneapolis and begin my tenure in Portland, Maine. There is a part of me, in reading the laws about a potentially afflicted house, that makes me cringe. Fortunately, my house is in great shape, passed the Truth in Housing inspection (not by a priest, but by a certified inspector!), and will make a lovely home for its next owner (sooner rather than later, I hope). On the other hand, the text gives me a sense of hope. There were systems in place as far back as before our arrival in the Promised Land to make sure that our houses were more than just structures, but homes that are defined by holiness. My house has certainly been that - a home, a holy place, a mikdash m'at, a miniature sanctuary. I hope it will soon be that for its next resident, too.
I knew this week's Torah portion was Metzora, typically the second half of a double portion with Tazria. But this being a leap year in the Jewish calendar, it gets a week all to itself. In the midst of the Torah portion are the laws that tell you how to deal with an eruptive plague in your house (Lev. 14:34). The text tells us that if a plague breaks out in our house, the owner is instructed to go to the priest who will examine the house. After examining it, the priest will leave it alone for a week and return to see if the plague has spread. If it has spread, then the affected stones will be removed, replaced, and plaster will be added. This gets repeated again if the plague has spread, hopefully not resulting in needing to tear down the house. Ultimately, when the plague has been overcome, a sacrifice is offered. It involves the use of two birds, one that is sacrificed and a second that is set free.
So, how could all of this possibly be relevant? Well, my house is on the market as I prepare to leave Minneapolis and begin my tenure in Portland, Maine. There is a part of me, in reading the laws about a potentially afflicted house, that makes me cringe. Fortunately, my house is in great shape, passed the Truth in Housing inspection (not by a priest, but by a certified inspector!), and will make a lovely home for its next owner (sooner rather than later, I hope). On the other hand, the text gives me a sense of hope. There were systems in place as far back as before our arrival in the Promised Land to make sure that our houses were more than just structures, but homes that are defined by holiness. My house has certainly been that - a home, a holy place, a mikdash m'at, a miniature sanctuary. I hope it will soon be that for its next resident, too.
Friday, March 11, 2011
A Call to Action
When Haiti was struck with an earthquake on January 12, 2010, Israel set up a field hospital to help the Haitian victims. When an earthquake hit Chile a year ago today, Israel was among the countries to respond. And when Japan was shaken with a devastating 8.9 magnitude earthquake today, Israel, again, heeds the call to action. According to Haaretz, "The Japanese consul in Israel, Mitoshiko Shinomya, told the Israeli news website Ynet that he was heartened by the Israeli government's offer of assistance. 'Israel officially offered its help an hour after the earthquake struck,' Shinomya said."
According to Haaretz, various rescue organizations in Israel will be deploying to Japan (after Shabbat) to assist in the rescue efforts. ZAKA International Rescue Unit, which originally began as an organization aimed at responding to terrorist attacks in Israel, now also deploys internationally to assist where, according to their website, where Jews or Israelis may be affected. Of course, there are Jews everywhere. IsraAid, as well, is organizing to send two teams of rescue personnel to Japan, provided they can figure out how to get there. The airports near the earthquake's epicenter are flooded; the airport in Tokyo is shut down.
Israel has among its charges the expectation to be a light to the nations. Even as there the world criticized Israel for her relationships with her neighbors, Israel still responds throughout the world, using her knowledge, resources, and drive to make the world a better place. The Jewish people, no less than Israel, are a people who are moved to action, caring not only for our Jewish community, but the world as a whole, too. This week's Torah portion, Vayikra, begins with a call, "The Eternal called Moses and spoke to him from the Tent of Meeting" (Leviticus 1:1). We, too, are called to action.
If you want to help make a difference in Japan, consider giving through the Joint Distribution Committee's Japan/Pacific Disaster Relief Fund or through the Jewish Federations of North America's Japan, Hawaii and the Pacific Relief Fund, both reputable Jewish organizations bringing to life God's call for us to be a light unto the nations.
According to Haaretz, various rescue organizations in Israel will be deploying to Japan (after Shabbat) to assist in the rescue efforts. ZAKA International Rescue Unit, which originally began as an organization aimed at responding to terrorist attacks in Israel, now also deploys internationally to assist where, according to their website, where Jews or Israelis may be affected. Of course, there are Jews everywhere. IsraAid, as well, is organizing to send two teams of rescue personnel to Japan, provided they can figure out how to get there. The airports near the earthquake's epicenter are flooded; the airport in Tokyo is shut down.
Israel has among its charges the expectation to be a light to the nations. Even as there the world criticized Israel for her relationships with her neighbors, Israel still responds throughout the world, using her knowledge, resources, and drive to make the world a better place. The Jewish people, no less than Israel, are a people who are moved to action, caring not only for our Jewish community, but the world as a whole, too. This week's Torah portion, Vayikra, begins with a call, "The Eternal called Moses and spoke to him from the Tent of Meeting" (Leviticus 1:1). We, too, are called to action.
If you want to help make a difference in Japan, consider giving through the Joint Distribution Committee's Japan/Pacific Disaster Relief Fund or through the Jewish Federations of North America's Japan, Hawaii and the Pacific Relief Fund, both reputable Jewish organizations bringing to life God's call for us to be a light unto the nations.
Friday, March 4, 2011
Pillars of Cloud and Fire (Parashat P'kudei)
By the end of this week's Torah portion, P'kudei, the Tabernacle has been completed. The past weeks that we have spent reading about the details of the materials of the Mishkan, their sources and implementation have come to a close and we should have our place where God can dwell within us. But at the very end of the Torah portion we read, "Over the Mishkan a cloud of the Eternal rested by day, and a fire would appear in the cloud by night, in view of all the house of Israel throughout their journeys" (Exodus 40:38). It seems that even though we have completed this dwelling place for God, this sanctuary for God, we still need to be reminded of God's presence.
The pillar of cloud and fire has been with us since nearly the very beginning of Exodus, a symbol of God's presence and protection. It stood between us and the Egyptians, it guided us from one encampment to another. And now that we have the Mishkan, it takes up its place letting us know when to move and when not to move. The Mishkan is not enough. It is not enough for us to have a place to worship God, a place for God to dwell with us. We also need a tangible sense of God's presence, something we can see and maybe even feel, the column of cloud, the warmth of the fire. Today, it isn't as easy to see God's presence before us. We don't always know when it is time to move and when it is time to stay put. We must look deeper, into ourselves and into the world, to get these signals today.
The pillar of cloud and fire has been with us since nearly the very beginning of Exodus, a symbol of God's presence and protection. It stood between us and the Egyptians, it guided us from one encampment to another. And now that we have the Mishkan, it takes up its place letting us know when to move and when not to move. The Mishkan is not enough. It is not enough for us to have a place to worship God, a place for God to dwell with us. We also need a tangible sense of God's presence, something we can see and maybe even feel, the column of cloud, the warmth of the fire. Today, it isn't as easy to see God's presence before us. We don't always know when it is time to move and when it is time to stay put. We must look deeper, into ourselves and into the world, to get these signals today.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Collective Bargaining and Collective Responsibility
One hundred years ago one month from today, probably right around this time, a fire blazed at the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory in New York. 146 immigrant workers’ lives were lost, most of them women averaging 19-years-old. The exit doors had been bolted shut allegedly to prevent workers from taking unnecessary breaks. When the fire broke out, there was nowhere to go. As Jo-Ann Mort writes, “March 25, 1911, became a Sabbath like no other. Scores of young immigrant Jewish women who couldn’t afford a day of rest went to work at the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory, a newfangled high-rise factory on the eighth, ninth and 10th floors of the Asch building, near Washington Square Park in New York City’s Greenwich Village. Their employers, Isaac Harris and Max Blanck — known throughout the burgeoning shmatte business as “the shirtwaist kings” — had managed to beat back unionization attempts by the fledgling International Ladies Garment Workers Union. This was the era when Jews were both owners and workers.”
First in Wisconsin, now also in Indiana and Ohio, protests and shutdowns abound as the right to collective bargaining is called into questions. Few would doubt that the changes that came about because of the Triangle Factory victims’ experience were a step in the wrong direction. But the conversation around collective bargaining today is a different one. It isn’t news to anyone that many states, including Minnesota, are in budget crises and have to find ways to balance the budget. Some would propose cutting spending. Others propose increasing revenue. The reality is that the solution probably lies somewhere in between. The proposed cuts in Governor Dayton’s budget fall short of the funds needed.
A budget is a moral document. Whether it is your household budget, a synagogue’s budget, or the government’s budget, a budget defines our values and priorities. Each year I get a report from my credit card on where I have spent my money over the past year. When I got my report last month, I was pleased to see that much of my spending last year benefited social justice causes and ethically and sustainably produced food, both values that I say I believe in and that my spending supports. In Wisconsin, Ohio, Indiana, or even here in Minnesota, we have to ask if our state budgets uphold the values that we support. There is no doubt that both Governor Scott Walker and his supporters and labor unionists and those who support them want Wisconsin to succeed. The question is, what is their intention and are they going about it the right way. I’m not going to answer that question fromthe bimah. That’s for you to discuss.
What I am going to do is talk a bout how we answer that question. In this week’s Torah portion, Vayakhel, we continue reading about the construction of the Mishkan, the Tabernacle in the wilderness. When the Mishkan was constructed, the text tells us that only those whose hearts moved them were to contribute to construction of the Mishkan. This contrasts the creation of the golden calf that had total participation from the Israelites while Moses was up on Mount Sinai talking to God. Why the difference? The Israelites gave of themselves for both the golden calf and for the Mishkan, but it appears as though more people were invested in creating the golden calf. We have to wonder why.
There is a possibility that they each gave to the creation of the golden calf because none of them knew where their money was going. But when they saw the result of their spending – it didn’t match their morals – they were less willing to give for the creation of the Mishkan, nervous about how their money would be used. Another possibility is tied right into the name of this week’s Torah portion, Vayakhel. Vayakhel comes from the Hebrew root qof-hay-lamed, which is the same root for the word kehillah, community.
There are two different types of community represented. The golden calf represents blind group solidarity. There is no sense of separate individuality. The people are a nameless, identity-less multitude. But when the Mishkan is created, Moses assembles the people – Vayakhel Moshe et-kol-adat b’nei Yisrael, Moses assembled the entire Israelite people – and addressed them as a community. He detailed the needs and then those who were willing gave to the cause.
The Mishkan is not the work of one person’s hands. Though one artisan, Bezalel, headed up the labor, it collectively involved the work of all of the Israelites. Each person had the opportunity to leave his or her mark on the structure. Tradition tells us that the women brought their copper mirrors to be used in the Mishkan. One would think that use of something that had previously been intended for vanity would have been an unwanted addition to this dwelling-place for God. Instead, the women’s willingness to dedicate one of their most prized possessions for one of their highest values, worshiping God, made their gift worthy. Their identities, and the identities of all of those who gave, remain central to the notion of the Mishkan. They created a sense of shared ownership, of collective responsibility.
The community worked towards a collective vision, but not at the cost of the parts and people that made up that community. In Pirke Avot (2:2), Rabban Gamaliel teaches that all those who work for the community do so with a spiritual motive, working with the community. The question in Wisconsin, in Ohio, in Indiana, in any place where we create a budget, is whether or not we are acting with a spiritual motive. Do our actions and our budgets reflect our values and morals? Do we blindly participate and put our own pursuits ahead of the community or are we inspired by our values and seek to bring God’s presence into our community? We can only hope that we consider our place in our communities and act with a spiritual motive creating a mishkan in our own time, a dwelling-place for God in our lives.
Shabbat Shalom.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Intention Matters: God, Moses, the Israelites and the Infamous Golden Calf
The golden calf is probably one of the best known examples of idolatry. But what were the Israelites really up to and why was Moses able to convince God to renounce the punishment planned for the Israelites for creating the golden calf? My theory? The Israelites weren't actually trying to replace God.
When Aaron makes the golden calf and takes it out of its mold, the Israelites declare, "This is your god, O Israel, who brought you out of the land of Egypt!" (Exodus 32:4) Rashbam rhetorically asks if the Israelites could have actually been so foolish as to think that the calf that they had just created had actually brought them out of Egypt. He teaches that the Israelites might have thought that God's spirit was able to speak through the calf, which we know wasn't happening. Nahmanides concurs with Rashbam and goes one step further to say that it isn't the Israelites who couldn't be so foolish, but instead, us. If we believe that the gold that had previously been in the Israelites' ears could have possibly brought them out of Egypt.
So, if the Israelites couldn't have possibly believed that the golden calf they had just commissioned had brought them out of Egypt, and if we can't believe that it's possible, either, then why do the Israelites declare that it had and what is their real motive?
At the beginning of the narrative, we see that it wasn't God that the Israelites missed. It was Moses. The text tells us, "When the people saw that Moses was so long in coming down from the mountain, the people gathered against Aaron and said to him, 'Come, make us a god who shall go before us, for that man Moses, who brought us from the land of Egypt--we do not know what has happened to him'" (Exodus 32:1).
The people weren't replacing God; they were replacing Moses. In their relationship with God, Moses serves as an intermediary on behalf of the Israelites. The only logical replacement in this relationship is to replace Moses with the golden calf, not God. They wanted the golden calf to serve as an intermediary on their behalf with God, because Moses, who brought them from the land of Egypt had gone missing.
This, perhaps, justifies why God ultimately renounces the punishment intended for the Israelites. God knows their intention (though it takes some persuading by Moses). It also explains why Moses was so angry when he found out what the Israelites were up to.
So, this infamous story about idolatry in the wilderness actually shows us that intention matters. Even when we make a huge mistake (like creating an idol!), our intention matters and can sway the way that others think of us.
When Aaron makes the golden calf and takes it out of its mold, the Israelites declare, "This is your god, O Israel, who brought you out of the land of Egypt!" (Exodus 32:4) Rashbam rhetorically asks if the Israelites could have actually been so foolish as to think that the calf that they had just created had actually brought them out of Egypt. He teaches that the Israelites might have thought that God's spirit was able to speak through the calf, which we know wasn't happening. Nahmanides concurs with Rashbam and goes one step further to say that it isn't the Israelites who couldn't be so foolish, but instead, us. If we believe that the gold that had previously been in the Israelites' ears could have possibly brought them out of Egypt.
So, if the Israelites couldn't have possibly believed that the golden calf they had just commissioned had brought them out of Egypt, and if we can't believe that it's possible, either, then why do the Israelites declare that it had and what is their real motive?
At the beginning of the narrative, we see that it wasn't God that the Israelites missed. It was Moses. The text tells us, "When the people saw that Moses was so long in coming down from the mountain, the people gathered against Aaron and said to him, 'Come, make us a god who shall go before us, for that man Moses, who brought us from the land of Egypt--we do not know what has happened to him'" (Exodus 32:1).
The people weren't replacing God; they were replacing Moses. In their relationship with God, Moses serves as an intermediary on behalf of the Israelites. The only logical replacement in this relationship is to replace Moses with the golden calf, not God. They wanted the golden calf to serve as an intermediary on their behalf with God, because Moses, who brought them from the land of Egypt had gone missing.
This, perhaps, justifies why God ultimately renounces the punishment intended for the Israelites. God knows their intention (though it takes some persuading by Moses). It also explains why Moses was so angry when he found out what the Israelites were up to.
So, this infamous story about idolatry in the wilderness actually shows us that intention matters. Even when we make a huge mistake (like creating an idol!), our intention matters and can sway the way that others think of us.
Friday, February 11, 2011
"Is this burning an eternal flame?"
This week's Torah portion, Tetzaveh, begins with the following words: Command the people of Israel to bring to you pure oil of pressed olives for the light, to keep a lamp burning continually (Exodus 27:20). These last few words, "a lamp burning continually," in Hebrew read ner tamid. Those words might be familiar to you. The Eternal Light (not to be confused with 1989 hit single, Eternal Flame) is that light at the front of just about every synagogue's sanctuary. It is the symbol of God's presence in our communities and in our lives. While God commands the ner tamid, it is not there because God needs it. It is there because we need to be reminded of God's presence. We rely on our senses to know things. With a God we cannot actively see, we needed something to remind us of God's presence in our lives.
In his book, The Gates of the Forest by Elie Wiesel, he tells a story of the Baal Shem Tov. When the Baal Shem Tov saw trouble for the Jewish community, he would go to a certain place in the forest and meditate. When he found the location, he would light a fire, say a special prayer, and a miracle would occur. The looming crisis would dissolve and the people would be safe. Many years later, the Maggid of Mezritch, a disciple of the Baal Shem Tov, found himself and the Jewish community in a similar predicament, he would go to the same place in the forest as his teacher. Though he did not know how to light the special fire, he did know the prayer and he would recite it. Still, even without the fire, a miracle would happen and the community would be safe. More time passed and another generation came along. The rabbi of that generation would go to the special place in the forest, though he knew neither how to light the fire, nor recite the prayer. He would just hope that God would find his being in the right place sufficient. Somehow it was and the Jewish community would again be safe. More time passed and eventually the task of saving the community fell on Rabbi Israel of Ryzhyn. He, however, did not know the place, the prayer, or how to light the fire. Instead, he sat in his chair, rested his head in his hands, and hoped that recalling the story of the Baal Shem Tov would be enough to save the community. According to the story, it was enough. But it isn't for me.
It isn't enough for us just to tell the story, just to remember that in some distant place, someone else knew what to do and so we just have to remember that something else was done. No. We need to step up. We need to re-learn how to light the fire, how to recite the words, and where to go to put them to action. What this story fails to teach us is another lesson of the Baal Shem Tov. Considering the ner tamid, the Baal Shem Tov also taught: Your heart is the altar. Whatever your work, let a spark of the holy fire remain within you, and fan it into a flame.
So maybe The Bangles weren't so far off:
In his book, The Gates of the Forest by Elie Wiesel, he tells a story of the Baal Shem Tov. When the Baal Shem Tov saw trouble for the Jewish community, he would go to a certain place in the forest and meditate. When he found the location, he would light a fire, say a special prayer, and a miracle would occur. The looming crisis would dissolve and the people would be safe. Many years later, the Maggid of Mezritch, a disciple of the Baal Shem Tov, found himself and the Jewish community in a similar predicament, he would go to the same place in the forest as his teacher. Though he did not know how to light the special fire, he did know the prayer and he would recite it. Still, even without the fire, a miracle would happen and the community would be safe. More time passed and another generation came along. The rabbi of that generation would go to the special place in the forest, though he knew neither how to light the fire, nor recite the prayer. He would just hope that God would find his being in the right place sufficient. Somehow it was and the Jewish community would again be safe. More time passed and eventually the task of saving the community fell on Rabbi Israel of Ryzhyn. He, however, did not know the place, the prayer, or how to light the fire. Instead, he sat in his chair, rested his head in his hands, and hoped that recalling the story of the Baal Shem Tov would be enough to save the community. According to the story, it was enough. But it isn't for me.
It isn't enough for us just to tell the story, just to remember that in some distant place, someone else knew what to do and so we just have to remember that something else was done. No. We need to step up. We need to re-learn how to light the fire, how to recite the words, and where to go to put them to action. What this story fails to teach us is another lesson of the Baal Shem Tov. Considering the ner tamid, the Baal Shem Tov also taught: Your heart is the altar. Whatever your work, let a spark of the holy fire remain within you, and fan it into a flame.
So maybe The Bangles weren't so far off:
Close your eyes, give me your hand, darling.The ner tamid, the Eternal Light that reminds us of God's presence is also a call to action. It's not enough for us to bear witness to God's presence in our lives. We must turn that feeling into action and spread the light that is within each and every one of us, the spark of the Divine that links us to one another and to God.
Do you feel my heart beating, do you understand?
Do you feel the same, am I only dreaming?
Is this burning an eternal flame?
Friday, February 4, 2011
Hope and Pray
A friend forwarded me an email yesterday about the situation in Egypt. I am sure some of you have seen it, too. “Dear Egypt,” it read, “Please don’t destroy the Pyramids. We will not rebuild them. Sincerely, The Jews.” But the revolution in Egypt is a bigger deal for Judaism than the status of the pyramids that our people may or may not have built millennia ago. The uprising in Egypt has real impact on the State of Israel and on the United States, and on our place in the world as Americans and as Jews.
As you probably know, the situation in Egypt is moving faster than anyone can keep up and still, we don’t know what the outcome might be. In a piece for The Washington Post, Glenn Kessler outlines three possible scenarios in Egypt by turning to historical parallels. Could Egypt face “an eerie repeat of the 1979 revolution?” Will there be a transition to democracy like Indonesia in 1998? Or does Egypt face something in between, like “the initial outcome of the Romanian revolution of 1989?”
The Iran scenario, few would argue, is the worst case scenario for Israel, for the United States, even for Egypt. The Iranian revolution was originally led by moderates, a broad swath of the Iranian population seeking to depose Iran’s Shah, a leader, who like Mubarak, “was an anchor of U.S. power in the Middle East who maintained relations with Israel.” But when he was thrown out of government, the Islamist leadership of the long-exiled Ayatollah seized power, smothering the movement that had brought about the revolution. If this were to happen, Egypt would likely stop cooperating with Israel, especially in regards to Hamas. The Egyptian efforts to secure the border with Israel and prevent military supplies from entering Gaza would all but end. Hamas, could rapidly re-arm and its military power could allow for missiles to reach as far as Tel Aviv and Ben Gurion Airport.
“This parallel is imperfect – there is no Egyptian spiritual or religious leader living in Paris awaiting a triumphant return to Cairo.” But the Muslim Brotherhood, an Islamist movement that, though it originated in Egypt, “has long been an illegal but semi-tolerated force in Egyptian politics.” It could be poised to fill the power vacuum that exists in Egypt. Former State Department official Leslie Gelb says, “If they do gain control, it’s going to be almost impossible for the people to take it back.”
The second scenario, Indonesia’s transition to democracy, could be a model for the best possible outcome. “In 1998, President Suharto’s 32 years of authoritarian rule came to an end. He was another longtime U.S. ally whose departure was deeply feared by the White House. But in the end, the world’s most populous Muslim country made a messy and long transition to democracy – and remained a key partner of the United States.” For Israel, the best way for this scenario to play out might be for Egyptian Vice President Omar Suleiman to be elected to power with true democracy so that peace with Israel could be preserved. The parallels between this scenario and Egypt are greater. Like Indonesia, Egypt has a relatively secular tradition, a strong military that, at least until now, has refused to repress protestors, “and an uprising led by a mix of youth and civic society.”
The Romanian revolution is more of a middle-of-the-road scenario. Not ideal, but not catastrophic either. In 1989, Romanian revolutionaries overthrew their dictator and assassinated him. “But within months, the military and Communist elite had engineered their survival, with the designated president…winning 85 percent of the vote in a May 1990 election.” Unfortunately, the government continued to control the media and elections were still manipulated. The driving force in making the Romanian revolution a success in the long run was their desire to become a member of NATO and the European Union, options that aren’t present for Egypt. For Israel, this scenario could be ‘good enough’ if Suleiman were to be elected and if there were a few cosmetic reforms that would give the illusion of change.
However things play out in the long run, one thing is true now for Israel. Israelis feel more vulnerable about security. For over thirty years, Israel has not had to significantly worry about its southern border with the Arab world’s most populous nation. Though our peace with Egypt has been described as a 'cold peace,' it has been an asset for both countries. Until now, Israel in particular has no longer had to contemplate a two- or three-front war.
All of that might change. Israel may need to expand its military force along the Israeli-Egyptian border, siphoning money away from other needs in Israel. It is surprising how little Israel has figured into Egypt’s uprising. And this is a good thing. There have been a few random moments of attention on Israel – an effigy of Mubarak wearing a star of David, a sign calling on an end to Israel – but by and large, the protestors have focused their attention internally. They want political freedom and they want jobs. These are goals with which we can all identify. If and how they accomplish these goals, though, is another question.
We do not know how the story in Egypt will end. Neither do the Egyptians. All we can do is wait. It will take generations to really understand how today plays out for the Egyptian people. In our cycle of Torah readings, we are in the midst of our own liberation story. Only a short while ago we fled, dissatisfied by the life that we had in Egypt. We struggled to change our situation and ultimately, we found ourselves in the wilderness, unsure of our future. We needed a strong leader. There was riff-raff among us, the erev rav, the mixed multitude that left Egypt with us. And there were lots of agendas, lots of people struggling for power and control. In the future, we’ll see the rebellion of Korach and a challenge of Moses’ and Aaron’s leadership. We’ll see Mahlah, Noa, Hoglah, Milcah and Tirzah, the daughters of Zelophehad, challenge the laws of inheritance bringing greater equality among the Israelite men and women. This week, we read the details of the construction of the Tabernacle, which tradition teaches us God had us build not because God needed it, but because we were feeling lost and needed a place to worship God.
In our transitional moment, which lasts a generation in the wilderness, at least, we seek a strong leader who can make sure the people’s needs are a priority. Our text tells us that the Tabernacle was constructed with gifts brought by every person whose heart moved him or her to be involved. Every giver that wanted to offer a gift had to be included, no matter how big or small the gift. Every voice that wanted to speak had to be heard. Only a leader who could respect the rights of the individual and simultaneously make the community’s needs a priority would succeed. The Israelites in this week’s Torah portion, in the weeks and even months ahead, do not yet know how it will all turn out. The Egyptians of today, protesting, uprising, leading a revolution, do not yet know how their narrative will end, either. All we could do in the wilderness was to hope and pray for a leader strong enough to guide us through that incredibly powerful, transitional moment. All that we can do alongside modern day Egypt and its neighbors, especially Israel, is to hope and pray for a leader strong enough to include the voices of every Egyptian, to keep the people’s best interest at heart, and to lead Egypt to a successful and peaceful future. Ken y’hi ratzon, may it be God’s will.
As you probably know, the situation in Egypt is moving faster than anyone can keep up and still, we don’t know what the outcome might be. In a piece for The Washington Post, Glenn Kessler outlines three possible scenarios in Egypt by turning to historical parallels. Could Egypt face “an eerie repeat of the 1979 revolution?” Will there be a transition to democracy like Indonesia in 1998? Or does Egypt face something in between, like “the initial outcome of the Romanian revolution of 1989?”
The Iran scenario, few would argue, is the worst case scenario for Israel, for the United States, even for Egypt. The Iranian revolution was originally led by moderates, a broad swath of the Iranian population seeking to depose Iran’s Shah, a leader, who like Mubarak, “was an anchor of U.S. power in the Middle East who maintained relations with Israel.” But when he was thrown out of government, the Islamist leadership of the long-exiled Ayatollah seized power, smothering the movement that had brought about the revolution. If this were to happen, Egypt would likely stop cooperating with Israel, especially in regards to Hamas. The Egyptian efforts to secure the border with Israel and prevent military supplies from entering Gaza would all but end. Hamas, could rapidly re-arm and its military power could allow for missiles to reach as far as Tel Aviv and Ben Gurion Airport.
“This parallel is imperfect – there is no Egyptian spiritual or religious leader living in Paris awaiting a triumphant return to Cairo.” But the Muslim Brotherhood, an Islamist movement that, though it originated in Egypt, “has long been an illegal but semi-tolerated force in Egyptian politics.” It could be poised to fill the power vacuum that exists in Egypt. Former State Department official Leslie Gelb says, “If they do gain control, it’s going to be almost impossible for the people to take it back.”
The second scenario, Indonesia’s transition to democracy, could be a model for the best possible outcome. “In 1998, President Suharto’s 32 years of authoritarian rule came to an end. He was another longtime U.S. ally whose departure was deeply feared by the White House. But in the end, the world’s most populous Muslim country made a messy and long transition to democracy – and remained a key partner of the United States.” For Israel, the best way for this scenario to play out might be for Egyptian Vice President Omar Suleiman to be elected to power with true democracy so that peace with Israel could be preserved. The parallels between this scenario and Egypt are greater. Like Indonesia, Egypt has a relatively secular tradition, a strong military that, at least until now, has refused to repress protestors, “and an uprising led by a mix of youth and civic society.”
The Romanian revolution is more of a middle-of-the-road scenario. Not ideal, but not catastrophic either. In 1989, Romanian revolutionaries overthrew their dictator and assassinated him. “But within months, the military and Communist elite had engineered their survival, with the designated president…winning 85 percent of the vote in a May 1990 election.” Unfortunately, the government continued to control the media and elections were still manipulated. The driving force in making the Romanian revolution a success in the long run was their desire to become a member of NATO and the European Union, options that aren’t present for Egypt. For Israel, this scenario could be ‘good enough’ if Suleiman were to be elected and if there were a few cosmetic reforms that would give the illusion of change.
However things play out in the long run, one thing is true now for Israel. Israelis feel more vulnerable about security. For over thirty years, Israel has not had to significantly worry about its southern border with the Arab world’s most populous nation. Though our peace with Egypt has been described as a 'cold peace,' it has been an asset for both countries. Until now, Israel in particular has no longer had to contemplate a two- or three-front war.
All of that might change. Israel may need to expand its military force along the Israeli-Egyptian border, siphoning money away from other needs in Israel. It is surprising how little Israel has figured into Egypt’s uprising. And this is a good thing. There have been a few random moments of attention on Israel – an effigy of Mubarak wearing a star of David, a sign calling on an end to Israel – but by and large, the protestors have focused their attention internally. They want political freedom and they want jobs. These are goals with which we can all identify. If and how they accomplish these goals, though, is another question.
We do not know how the story in Egypt will end. Neither do the Egyptians. All we can do is wait. It will take generations to really understand how today plays out for the Egyptian people. In our cycle of Torah readings, we are in the midst of our own liberation story. Only a short while ago we fled, dissatisfied by the life that we had in Egypt. We struggled to change our situation and ultimately, we found ourselves in the wilderness, unsure of our future. We needed a strong leader. There was riff-raff among us, the erev rav, the mixed multitude that left Egypt with us. And there were lots of agendas, lots of people struggling for power and control. In the future, we’ll see the rebellion of Korach and a challenge of Moses’ and Aaron’s leadership. We’ll see Mahlah, Noa, Hoglah, Milcah and Tirzah, the daughters of Zelophehad, challenge the laws of inheritance bringing greater equality among the Israelite men and women. This week, we read the details of the construction of the Tabernacle, which tradition teaches us God had us build not because God needed it, but because we were feeling lost and needed a place to worship God.
In our transitional moment, which lasts a generation in the wilderness, at least, we seek a strong leader who can make sure the people’s needs are a priority. Our text tells us that the Tabernacle was constructed with gifts brought by every person whose heart moved him or her to be involved. Every giver that wanted to offer a gift had to be included, no matter how big or small the gift. Every voice that wanted to speak had to be heard. Only a leader who could respect the rights of the individual and simultaneously make the community’s needs a priority would succeed. The Israelites in this week’s Torah portion, in the weeks and even months ahead, do not yet know how it will all turn out. The Egyptians of today, protesting, uprising, leading a revolution, do not yet know how their narrative will end, either. All we could do in the wilderness was to hope and pray for a leader strong enough to guide us through that incredibly powerful, transitional moment. All that we can do alongside modern day Egypt and its neighbors, especially Israel, is to hope and pray for a leader strong enough to include the voices of every Egyptian, to keep the people’s best interest at heart, and to lead Egypt to a successful and peaceful future. Ken y’hi ratzon, may it be God’s will.
Friday, January 28, 2011
"The Best Kind of Action is Social Action"
I've just arrived in Washington, DC with some of my Confirmation students to participate in L'Taken, the youth lobbying conference of the Religious Action Center of Reform Judaism. Over the course of the next four days, my students will learn about issues of social justice from a Jewish perspective, worship with hundreds of other teens from across the United States, and on Monday, they will be lobbying their U.S. Senators and Representatives on issues that are important to them.
This week's Torah portion, Mishpatim, outlines a whole host of laws about the ways in which we interact with one another. We learn about the laws of theft and of lost property and of our obligation to the weakest members of our societies. One of my favorite pieces in the text is Exodus 23:4-5, where Torah teaches us, "When you encounter your enemy's ox or ass wandering, you must take it back to him. When you see the ass of your enemy lying under its burden and would refrain from raising it, you must nevertheless raise it with him."
The text doesn't just tell us to return lost property, but it reminds us to return the lost property of our enemies. It doesn't tell us to do things for others, lifting their animals under their burdens, but to lift it with our enemies. There are many times when we don't see eye to eye with others, where we see them as enemies and are threatened by them, either in reality or in perception. What Torah teaches us in this moment is that when we engage with our enemies, however hard that might be, we create real opportunities for dialogue and maybe even friendship.
Over the next four days, my students will wrestle with difficult issues of social justice. They will challenge themselves in what they know about the world and their power to bring about change. They will turn their learning and reflection into action on Monday and actually make real steps to make the world a better place. At the same time, half way around the world, Egypt is in turmoil. We may view Egypt as a friend - of Israel, of the United States - and we may fear that what lies ahead may make an enemy of our friend. However the turmoil in Egypt resolves itself, we must remind ourselves to continue to engage with one another because without communication there can be no relationship. And without relationship there can be no peace.
This week's Torah portion, Mishpatim, outlines a whole host of laws about the ways in which we interact with one another. We learn about the laws of theft and of lost property and of our obligation to the weakest members of our societies. One of my favorite pieces in the text is Exodus 23:4-5, where Torah teaches us, "When you encounter your enemy's ox or ass wandering, you must take it back to him. When you see the ass of your enemy lying under its burden and would refrain from raising it, you must nevertheless raise it with him."
The text doesn't just tell us to return lost property, but it reminds us to return the lost property of our enemies. It doesn't tell us to do things for others, lifting their animals under their burdens, but to lift it with our enemies. There are many times when we don't see eye to eye with others, where we see them as enemies and are threatened by them, either in reality or in perception. What Torah teaches us in this moment is that when we engage with our enemies, however hard that might be, we create real opportunities for dialogue and maybe even friendship.
Over the next four days, my students will wrestle with difficult issues of social justice. They will challenge themselves in what they know about the world and their power to bring about change. They will turn their learning and reflection into action on Monday and actually make real steps to make the world a better place. At the same time, half way around the world, Egypt is in turmoil. We may view Egypt as a friend - of Israel, of the United States - and we may fear that what lies ahead may make an enemy of our friend. However the turmoil in Egypt resolves itself, we must remind ourselves to continue to engage with one another because without communication there can be no relationship. And without relationship there can be no peace.
Friday, January 21, 2011
The Peace Corps, Tikkun Olam, and Seeing Each Other's Faces
Yesterday was the fiftieth anniversary of the inauguration of President John F. Kennedy. As a teen and young adult, I had an unusual fascination with JFK and his family. I have always been intrigued with understanding the impact that the Kennedy family had on what my own responsibilities were as an American citizen. "Ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country." We are well familiar with this often quoted line from JFK's Inaugural Address. There always seemed to me a natural fit between the Reform Jewish values of social justice and tikkun olam, and Kennedy's insistance that "If a free society cannot help the many who are poor, it cannot save the few who are rich." Perhaps that is why shortly after the Reform movement created the Religious Action Center of Reform Judaism, we presented President Kennedy with a Torah scroll.
JFK went beyond rhetoric. He helped to create opportunities for a nation to improve itself and improve the world. One of these was the Peace Corps. In essence, the Peace Corps was created to bring to fruition JFK's inaugural declaration: "Let the word go forth that the torch has been passed to a new generation of Americans... To those peoples in the huts and villages of half the globe struggling to break th bonds of mass misery, we pledge our best efforts to help them help themselves."
Upon creating the Peace Corps, President Kennedy named Shriver its first director. This week, we lost one of the leaders of one of those opportunities. On Tuesday, Sarge Shriver, JFK's brother-in-law, died. Sarge Shriver "took on some of the toughest issues in the public sphere with optimism and commitment -- poverty, race, unemployment, and access to justice." Through his own faith, his Catholicism, Shriver believed that we, as human beings, need to meet one another's needs, to be better people. "He saw caring as 'the cure'" to the ills of society.
In an address to Yale University graduates in 1994, Sarge Shriver challenged the students to step away from their own reflections in the mirror and to focus on the world around them. "Break your mirrors!!! Yes indeed -- shatter the glass. In our society that is so self-absorbed, begin to look less at yourself and more at each other. Learn more about the face of your neighbor and less about your own." The Chasidic tradition teaches a similar message.
There was once a man named Abraham. He had a little store and earned just enough to take care of his family. He was neither poor nor rich, but simply got by and helped others when he could. One typical day, he stood in the doorway of his store, hoping for business, making conversation with passers-by, and welcoming guests. He encountered a stranger, someone who wasn't regularly in his village. Intent upon taking care of others, Abraham offered the stranger a bite to eat, something to drink and a place to put up his feet. What Abraham didn't know was that this stranger was no ordinary stranger. He was the rebbe from another village who was passing through on his way to a wedding.
The rebbe's visit to Abraham's store made him the destination in town. All of a sudden, business was booming and he was quickly becoming rich. He built a brand new house, filled it with wonderful things, and hired servants to care for him and his family. The people of the town quickly realized how he'd changed, how he didn't focus on caring for others anymore. The rebbe paid him a visit.
Immediately, the rebbe saw the change in Abraham's house, the fancy rugs, the artwork, and the most elegant mirror you'd ever seen. "Quite a change!" pointed out the rebbe, calling Abraham before the mirror. "What do you see when you look in the mirror?" asked the rebbe. Of course, Abraham could see himself and his possessions reflected back at him, nothing more. Then the rebbe called Abraham to the window, opened the curtains, and again asked him what he could see. Now, Abraham could see the people of his town. And he could tell the rebbe about each of them; he knew them all.
The rebbe pointed out to Abraham that a mirror and a window are virtually the same, both just a piece of glass. The only difference is that the mirror is coated with silver on one side so that instead of seeing through it, you only see your own reflection. Abraham realized that he'd been spending so much time only focusing on himself. He'd stopped looking out the window of his house into the faces of others. To remind himself of his responsibility to learn more about the faces of others and less about his own, Abraham scraped away the silver at the corners of his mirror so there'd always be a reminder to look out his window more often.
This was the kind of message that Sarge Shriver wanted to send. We cannot only be focused on ourselves. Also, we can't do it all alone. One of Shriver's visions for the Peace Corps was that it would be a program constantly filled with new talent and new ideas, new faces. He imposed "'The Five Year Rule,' requiring all staff to work at the Peace Corps for a limit of five years, [insuring] that the agency does not become stagnant." As an in-law to the Kennedys, Shriver quickly took on the role of "best supporting actor," someone behind the scenes, often out of the spotlight, making the magic happen.
In this week's Torah portion, we encounter Jethro, Moses' father-in-law. When Jethro witnesses Moses' handling all of the people's questions and inquiries by himself, Jethro warns him. Jethro takes note of the endless line of Israelites seeking advice and asks Moses why he sits alone trying to take care of the people's needs all by himself. When Moses tries to insist that the people need him, Jethro tells him he will surely wear himself out. He advises his son-in-law to delegate responsibility and create a legal system so that Moses can share the burden. Jethro isn't only concerned with Moses' well-being, but also with the nation's well-being. it is only if he changes the way that he does things that the people will be able to eventually enter the land in peace.
Sarge Shriver taught, "No free market can ever replace free human services rendered by one free human being to another human being. A 'good society' is the result of billions of such acts." There was a lot that needed fixing in Moses' time. There is a lot that needs fixing now, too. "Too many families live in poverty; too many children are stuck in underperforming schools and too many American cynically believe we can't fix what's broken." But we can fix what's broken, when break the mirror, or even just scratch the silver off the back of it, look more into the faces of others and less at our own reflections, and share in the responsbility of making the world a better place.
JFK went beyond rhetoric. He helped to create opportunities for a nation to improve itself and improve the world. One of these was the Peace Corps. In essence, the Peace Corps was created to bring to fruition JFK's inaugural declaration: "Let the word go forth that the torch has been passed to a new generation of Americans... To those peoples in the huts and villages of half the globe struggling to break th bonds of mass misery, we pledge our best efforts to help them help themselves."
Upon creating the Peace Corps, President Kennedy named Shriver its first director. This week, we lost one of the leaders of one of those opportunities. On Tuesday, Sarge Shriver, JFK's brother-in-law, died. Sarge Shriver "took on some of the toughest issues in the public sphere with optimism and commitment -- poverty, race, unemployment, and access to justice." Through his own faith, his Catholicism, Shriver believed that we, as human beings, need to meet one another's needs, to be better people. "He saw caring as 'the cure'" to the ills of society.
In an address to Yale University graduates in 1994, Sarge Shriver challenged the students to step away from their own reflections in the mirror and to focus on the world around them. "Break your mirrors!!! Yes indeed -- shatter the glass. In our society that is so self-absorbed, begin to look less at yourself and more at each other. Learn more about the face of your neighbor and less about your own." The Chasidic tradition teaches a similar message.
There was once a man named Abraham. He had a little store and earned just enough to take care of his family. He was neither poor nor rich, but simply got by and helped others when he could. One typical day, he stood in the doorway of his store, hoping for business, making conversation with passers-by, and welcoming guests. He encountered a stranger, someone who wasn't regularly in his village. Intent upon taking care of others, Abraham offered the stranger a bite to eat, something to drink and a place to put up his feet. What Abraham didn't know was that this stranger was no ordinary stranger. He was the rebbe from another village who was passing through on his way to a wedding.
The rebbe's visit to Abraham's store made him the destination in town. All of a sudden, business was booming and he was quickly becoming rich. He built a brand new house, filled it with wonderful things, and hired servants to care for him and his family. The people of the town quickly realized how he'd changed, how he didn't focus on caring for others anymore. The rebbe paid him a visit.
Immediately, the rebbe saw the change in Abraham's house, the fancy rugs, the artwork, and the most elegant mirror you'd ever seen. "Quite a change!" pointed out the rebbe, calling Abraham before the mirror. "What do you see when you look in the mirror?" asked the rebbe. Of course, Abraham could see himself and his possessions reflected back at him, nothing more. Then the rebbe called Abraham to the window, opened the curtains, and again asked him what he could see. Now, Abraham could see the people of his town. And he could tell the rebbe about each of them; he knew them all.
The rebbe pointed out to Abraham that a mirror and a window are virtually the same, both just a piece of glass. The only difference is that the mirror is coated with silver on one side so that instead of seeing through it, you only see your own reflection. Abraham realized that he'd been spending so much time only focusing on himself. He'd stopped looking out the window of his house into the faces of others. To remind himself of his responsibility to learn more about the faces of others and less about his own, Abraham scraped away the silver at the corners of his mirror so there'd always be a reminder to look out his window more often.
This was the kind of message that Sarge Shriver wanted to send. We cannot only be focused on ourselves. Also, we can't do it all alone. One of Shriver's visions for the Peace Corps was that it would be a program constantly filled with new talent and new ideas, new faces. He imposed "'The Five Year Rule,' requiring all staff to work at the Peace Corps for a limit of five years, [insuring] that the agency does not become stagnant." As an in-law to the Kennedys, Shriver quickly took on the role of "best supporting actor," someone behind the scenes, often out of the spotlight, making the magic happen.
In this week's Torah portion, we encounter Jethro, Moses' father-in-law. When Jethro witnesses Moses' handling all of the people's questions and inquiries by himself, Jethro warns him. Jethro takes note of the endless line of Israelites seeking advice and asks Moses why he sits alone trying to take care of the people's needs all by himself. When Moses tries to insist that the people need him, Jethro tells him he will surely wear himself out. He advises his son-in-law to delegate responsibility and create a legal system so that Moses can share the burden. Jethro isn't only concerned with Moses' well-being, but also with the nation's well-being. it is only if he changes the way that he does things that the people will be able to eventually enter the land in peace.
Sarge Shriver taught, "No free market can ever replace free human services rendered by one free human being to another human being. A 'good society' is the result of billions of such acts." There was a lot that needed fixing in Moses' time. There is a lot that needs fixing now, too. "Too many families live in poverty; too many children are stuck in underperforming schools and too many American cynically believe we can't fix what's broken." But we can fix what's broken, when break the mirror, or even just scratch the silver off the back of it, look more into the faces of others and less at our own reflections, and share in the responsbility of making the world a better place.
Friday, January 14, 2011
Waffling at the Water's Edge
This week is Shabbat Shirah, which gets its name from the Torah reading assigned to this week, the crossing of the Sea of Reeds and shirat hayam, the song at the sea. The Haftarah for this Shabbat comes from the Book of Judges and includes Deborah's song. As the Israelites left Egypt, with the Egyptian army in hot pursuit, they found themselves between a rock and a hard place, well, actually, between an army and the water, with nowhere to go.
According to one midrash (BT Sotah 36b-37a), as the Israelites stood at the edge of the water they began fighting. The midrash first claims that they each fought about who would get to go first, each wanting to be the first one in the water. But Rabbi Judah corrects Rabbi Meir and tells him that that was not what happened. Instead, the tribes were fighting because none wanted to go into the water first. All of a sudden, Nachshon son of Amminadab jumped forward and was the first to go into the sea. Nachshon is honored for his quick action, for jumping in and doing something when everyone else was just arguing.
In the meantime, the midrash continues, Moses was standing by the shore of the sea praying at great length. God interrupts Moses and says, "While you're busy praying at great length, have you not noticed that My people are about to drown in the sea." God tells Moses not to pray, but to call the people to action.
This all reminds me of a poem I encountered years ago. I don't know its source.
This is a little story about four people named
Everybody, Somebody, Anybody, and Nobody.
There was an important job to be done
and Everybody was sure that Somebody would do it.
Anybody could have done it, but Nobody did it.
Somebody got angry about that because it was Everybody's job.
Everybody thought that Anybody could do it,
but Nobody realized that Everybody wouldn't do it.
It ended up that Everybody blamed Somebody
when Nobody did what Anybody could have done.
This cute little poem, which I think I first encountered in high school, reminds us to be the kind of people who jump in when things need to get done. There is a time for discussion and a time for praying, but there is also a time for action. Nachshon son of Amminadab knew this. We should too.
According to one midrash (BT Sotah 36b-37a), as the Israelites stood at the edge of the water they began fighting. The midrash first claims that they each fought about who would get to go first, each wanting to be the first one in the water. But Rabbi Judah corrects Rabbi Meir and tells him that that was not what happened. Instead, the tribes were fighting because none wanted to go into the water first. All of a sudden, Nachshon son of Amminadab jumped forward and was the first to go into the sea. Nachshon is honored for his quick action, for jumping in and doing something when everyone else was just arguing.
In the meantime, the midrash continues, Moses was standing by the shore of the sea praying at great length. God interrupts Moses and says, "While you're busy praying at great length, have you not noticed that My people are about to drown in the sea." God tells Moses not to pray, but to call the people to action.
This all reminds me of a poem I encountered years ago. I don't know its source.
This is a little story about four people named
Everybody, Somebody, Anybody, and Nobody.
There was an important job to be done
and Everybody was sure that Somebody would do it.
Anybody could have done it, but Nobody did it.
Somebody got angry about that because it was Everybody's job.
Everybody thought that Anybody could do it,
but Nobody realized that Everybody wouldn't do it.
It ended up that Everybody blamed Somebody
when Nobody did what Anybody could have done.
This cute little poem, which I think I first encountered in high school, reminds us to be the kind of people who jump in when things need to get done. There is a time for discussion and a time for praying, but there is also a time for action. Nachshon son of Amminadab knew this. We should too.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
"And you shall be a blessing..." Debbie Friedman, zt"l, May the memory of the righteous be a blessing
In November 1995, I attended the UAHC Biennial Convention in Atlanta and stayed with our close family friends, the Borths. Their granddaughter had recently been born and was in NICU, if I remember correctly, with heart issues. I visited her in the hospital and then went on to the convention, where in a worship service with thousands of other Reform Jews, I sang Debbie Friedman's Mi Shebeirach, a prayer for healing and cried into the shoulder of a friend.On a cold February 14, 1996, I drove home from a peer leadership program at my high school to find out that my Aunt Liz had died. My father asked me to pick up my brother from Boy Scouts. I rolled down the windows of my car, frigid air letting me know I was alive, and listened to Debbie Friedman's L'chi Lach on repeat on my way to pick up Adam and probably on the way home, too. Its words, "and you shall be a blessing," comforted me.
During the summer of 1997, while on staff at Kutz Camp, my friend Emily taught me sign language to Debbie Friedman's L'chi Lach and Oseh Shalom, which I would use a few years later at Debbie Friedman concerts in Birmingham, Alabama and in Jacksonville, Florida, when Debbie would call me up on stage to sign alongside her. Later that summer, while on a day off, a group of staff and I showed up at Debbie Friedman's apartment. (I remembered her address from when she'd announced it from the stage at Biennial Convention in 1995.) She graciously welcomed us in, crazy teenagers that we were, spoke to us about her inspiration and her music, offered to order us lunch, and then walked us to the subway with her dog, Farfel.
This morning, Debbie Friedman died in her late 50s in Orange County, California. As Rabbi Daniel Freedlander said, "By creating a whole new genre of Jewish music, Debbie was able to reintroduce authentic Jewish spirituality." My own Jewish identity, my connection to worship, and the relationship I have with God stand on the foundation of Debbie Friedman's music and the impact she has had in my spiritual life. Her words and melodies will forever be a part of Judaism.
To her family and loved ones, we say, HaMakom y'nacheim etchem b'toch sha'ar avlei tziyon virushalayim, May God console you among all who mourn in Zion and Jerusalem. Of her we say, zecher tzadikim livracha, may the memory of the righteous be a blessing.
Friday, January 7, 2011
In Every Generation
We are on the cusp of freedom. Well, in the Torah reading cycle, anyway. This week, in Parashat Bo, God carries out the final plagues against Egypt and next week, on Shabbat Shirah, the Sabbath of Song, we will cross the Sea of Reeds, with Pharaoh's army in hot pursuit. Our Torah portion teaches us to explain the Passover rituals: "And you shall explain to your child on that day, 'It is because of what the Eternal did for me when I went free from Egypt'" (Exodus 13:8). In the Talmud (B. Pesachim 116b), the rabbis look at this verse and say בְּכָל דּור וָדור חַיּיב אָדָם לִרְאוֹת אֶת עַצְמוֹ כְּאִילוּ הוּא יָצָא מִמִּצְרַיִם (b'chol dor va-dor chayav adam lir'ot et atzmo k'ilu hu yatza mi-mitzrayim), In every generation a person is obligated to look at himself or herself as though he or she personally departed from Egypt. When we celebrate Passover and our freedom, we are not celebrating something that someone else before us experienced. Instead, the rabbis demand that we understand that it is our own liberation from bondage that we are celebrating.
In her version of Im Ein Ani Li, Debbie Friedman links Hillel's words from Pirke Avot 1:14 (If I am not for myself who will be for me? If I am only for myself, what am I? And if not now, when?) to the words from Pesachim 116b. In doing so, Debbie Friedman reminds us of our obligation to take care of the needs of others not only because it is the right thing to do, but because we, ourselves, have been the downtrodden, not our ancestors, but us. It is because of the fact that God brought us out of Egypt that we celebrate Passover and Debbie Friedman teaches, with her music, that the debt we owe God for having redeemed us demands that we stand up not only for ourselves, but for others, as well.
This week, Debbie Friedman was hospitalized in Orange County, California for pneumonia. As I am writing this, she is in a medically induced coma, in critical condition. Debbie was in the 1967 Confirmation class at Mount Zion Temple in St. Paul, Minnesota and later went on to become one of the leading musicians of Reform Judaism. Her music framed my Jewish identity in my teen years, helping me celebrate and comforting me. There have been calls for congregations and individuals to join in singing Debbie Friedman's Mi Shebeirach, sending prayers of healing her way. The lyrics can be found here.
In her version of Im Ein Ani Li, Debbie Friedman links Hillel's words from Pirke Avot 1:14 (If I am not for myself who will be for me? If I am only for myself, what am I? And if not now, when?) to the words from Pesachim 116b. In doing so, Debbie Friedman reminds us of our obligation to take care of the needs of others not only because it is the right thing to do, but because we, ourselves, have been the downtrodden, not our ancestors, but us. It is because of the fact that God brought us out of Egypt that we celebrate Passover and Debbie Friedman teaches, with her music, that the debt we owe God for having redeemed us demands that we stand up not only for ourselves, but for others, as well.
This week, Debbie Friedman was hospitalized in Orange County, California for pneumonia. As I am writing this, she is in a medically induced coma, in critical condition. Debbie was in the 1967 Confirmation class at Mount Zion Temple in St. Paul, Minnesota and later went on to become one of the leading musicians of Reform Judaism. Her music framed my Jewish identity in my teen years, helping me celebrate and comforting me. There have been calls for congregations and individuals to join in singing Debbie Friedman's Mi Shebeirach, sending prayers of healing her way. The lyrics can be found here.
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